The Brilliant Dance
by elliehigginbottom
Summary: As he walked right past you, right through you, you're sure, you're positive that he was not going after that girl. He's much too smart, has better taste...has more brains in his head, eyes in his head to be captivated by that tiny quidditch player. 2nd Place Winner in It's Not Your Story Competition!


**Author's Note: **This is my entry to It's Not Your Story Competition. It's a piece I've been mulling over for a week or two. I needed a challenge. I'm stuck tight on my other stories and I needed to take a step back and gain a new perspective.

...

What a fucking wasted night, you think. Sitting there on the rickety old wooden pub chair. And you even shaved your legs. For what?

Ugh.

You toss your mousy brown hair over your exposed shoulder. All the work. All the prepping, and waxing, and tweezing, and brushing, and painting, and he hasn't looked away from _her_ once.

Godric, what was so great about that girl any way? Her, with her long red hair, and those stupid freckles across her cheeks. Coming into your pub (your special pub) with her damn posse of_ athletes_, acting like they own the place. The short wench always making a joke, laughing and drinking like a man. Ha! Classless. You never understood what was so great about Quidditch any way.

He was supposed to be flirting with_ you_ at the bar. He'd been plenty interested two months ago when you stopped in for a drink with the girls after a shift at St. Mungo's. You'd talked and laughed, and Harry fucking Potter, grinned and gave you that signature smirk you'd seen plastered all over the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly. When he left with his fellow Aurors-in-training, he may not have kissed you, but you're sure he'd wanted too. So yeah you've come to this hole-in-the-wall pub almost every Friday night (and some Saturdays) ever since, hoping to "run" into the Boy Who Lived, because you swear you had a connection. You'd told all the girls the next day in between mopping feverish foreheads, and divvying out healing potions. And you certainly enjoyed the shade of green they all emanated at the thought that you had been chosen by The Chosen One.

But now you feel like a fucking fool, and you realize that that particular shade of green does not sit well in the stomach, as you watch them. Like a tragic romance, their eyes silently pleading with the other. An exploding snap could go off under their noses and they wouldn't notice.

She'd gotten to the pub before him, you'd noticed. That Jenny Weez-ley or whatever. Some up and coming quidditch player, a random bloke told you, and you could hear the lust dripping in his words. She showed up with a few witches and wizards in tow. Apparently they'd just finished a charity scrimmage. What a fucking saint she was...

The redhead and her friends had settled at the bar, and the men _flocked_. Which was just fine in your book. You only wanted one man's attention, and that attention was attached to a striking pair of electric green eyes. She could have the rest, you thought as you sized her up. Short. Redhaired. Freckled skin. Her body wasn't _that_ great. Come on, she wasn't even wearing makeup. A child.

You were a woman compared to her.

After your thorough once over, you were satisfied. No threat at all really. After the novel of celebrity wore off of her shiny white smile, they would see she was nothing special. It took blokes a bit longer to understand what you could assess in a hot minute. It was a skill only women possessed.

So you relaxed, tugged your blouse a bit lower, ordered another drink and chatted with Margaret, your chubby friend that you like to drag along for nights like this.

And tonight was the night. Your dedication paid off. The Aurors in training came swaggering through the door in all their glory. They were a fit bunch of blokes, laughing and tired. They rode so finely on that line between boys and men, drinking and laughing, protecting and serving. And you wanted to get your hands on one of them. And you'd settle for their leader.

You left sad pathetic Margaret mid-sentence, as you made your way into Harry Potter's line of sight. You'd let him notice you. Come to you, like all good boys should. The boys came in with a bang, and you felt your pulse jump in anticipation. You nonchalantly sipped your drink, counting down the moments in your head when he would come your way.

They moved into the crowd, just a few feet away now. And his impossibly green eyes were sweeping the joint, a habit he probably picked up from training. Then his eyes fell on you, and you smiled a coy little smile you'd practiced in the mirror for two months now. And his eyes went wide in disbelief, before the happiest little smirk tugged upwards on the corners of his lips. You'd kiss those corners tonight.

He was moving towards you, and you were moving towards him. He was almost within arms' reach when you realized something that made your stomach drop to the floor, and your perfectly (overly) plucked eyebrows draw together. He was not looking at you. He was looking at something over your shoulder. And he was following whatever he saw like a moth to a flame.

As he walked right past you, right through you, you're sure, you're positive that he was not going after _that girl_. He's much too smart, has better taste...has more brains in his head, _eyes_ in his head to be captivated by that tiny quidditch player. So you followed him. Just so when he realized that the little tart by the bar isn't worth the trouble, you would be close.

She was laughing with her long red hair thrown over one shoulder, as she toasted with a few of the crew she walked in with. A hopeful blonde bloke was trying to insert himself into their bland group, and into the redhead's atmosphere.

You stand back a few feet and watch. Harry, with his tall, lean personage bringing his presence in full force by just being. Just simply being. He casually leaned himself on the bar behind the redhead, while her attention was still occupied with clinking glasses. Once she finally took her sip, the attractive man spoke his first words you've heard in two months.

"Hey Gin."

Oh, well that's a relief. He was probably just ordering a drink.

But the girl turns, and her too-big doe eyes spark like fucking Christmas lights. Your jaw tightens, and you take a long sip of your alcohol.

"Harry!" she cried, and she _throws_ herself into his arms. You blanche. Who the hell was this girl? Harry would never go for a girl that forward; that pathetic. But, to your horror, he takes her in his arms with such enthusiasm that he lifts her off of her bar stool.

The smile on his face should have been the only sign you needed.

But he was really into you, and he laughed at all of your jokes.

He sets her back down, and she is eagerly turning and introducing him to all of her obnoxious friends.

"Everyone this is Harry Potter!" She says excitedly before turning back to the grinning man. Her friends quickly forgotten, "What are you doing back in England? Last I heard Ron said that you were in France til the end of Summer."

"I was," Harry started, running a hand through his dark hair, (which you had thought about doing the next time you saw him). "We returned yesterday, as scheduled."

The redhead listened eagerly, "Oh, I can never keep up with you anymore now that Ron is taking all of those strategy courses. Merlin, I never expected to see you here," she smiled, a blush creeping up on her sickeningly demure cheeks. You realize they already know each other.

Harry smiled right along back. Well the night was young. You stand there for a moment longer listening and watching their exchange.

"It is so good to see you Gin," He tells her. One moment is all you can handle, and you move down the bar. Keeping yourself in his line of sight. He'll come around, you tell yourself.

But he doesn't. They stay together talking and laughing. And when that blonde bloke from earlier makes his move, Harry is there with his arm around her. Warning the guy that her drinks are already being paid for _by him_. Ginny just lets it happen, an amused look on her face as the confused blonde man turns and leaves. And then like nothing happened, they slip back into conversation.

People at the bar push in, and you need some space. So you order a butterbeer, and retreat to a table. What a fucking night.

And they talk, _and they talk, and they talk. _

What could they be possibly talking about for that long? She was not even flirting with him. No batting of her eyelashes, or subtle touches of his hand. She was just sitting there smiling brightly, and laughing and flipping that blasted red hair over her shoulders. And Harry was bloody transfixed!

He hadn't looked away from her once.

Harry just stayed standing next to her knees, like a guard. And he peered down at her over his firewhiskey glass; ran an occasional hand through his dark hair; gripped the bar and let out a howling laugh at some _brilliantly funny_ thing she'd said. Merlin, he was handsome. Did she even appreciate the way his shoulders filled the expanse of his dark blue shirt?

"Hey Betty," Margaret greet you, plopping down at the table. You give her a moody nod. "Kind of a bust night for you, huh?" she conjectures glancing over at the (you refuse to allow the word _couple_ come to mind) at the bar.

"No," you protest quickly. "It's early. I think they're family or something." You explain. Godric, what did Margaret know, anyway?

"Well, I was asking around for you, and you're right. They're basically family," she tells you, pulling her curly blonde hair into a ponytail. You knew it!

"Who is she then?" you ask, feigning disinterest.

"She's a Weasley," Margaret tells you, as if that means something. Your eyebrows raise in a look saying, _so what? _"Ronald Weasley's younger sister..." You stare at her blankfaced. "Harry's best friend. War hero. Part of one of the most well known wizarding families. They all went to Hogwarts together." Now you remember. You'd read about them all.

"So she's like Harry's little sister then?" But it's not a question. It is an answer. You feel a new energy seize you.

"Well, do brother's typically date their sisters?" Margaret asks you with a wicked smile playing at the corner or her mouth. She can be a real envious hag sometimes.

"Date? They dated? Who did you even hear this from?" You ask skeptically.

Margaret shrugs, her stupid curls bouncing around her face, "One of the Aurors he came in with. Said they went to Hogwarts together. He was a year above Harry, and two above her. He was really funny," Margaret giggles, and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. After a long while of surly silence, she tells you she's going to get another drink and leaves you alone.

And they're _still_ talking. And she's still smiling up at him, and he's shining down at her. And you're convinced that it's a brotherly shine. Then another few men come and interrupt them, but Harry's doesn't look annoyed this time. They're the other Auror trainees. Harry smiles, and starts introducing them to Ginny, who grins, and shakes their hands. The men are smiling, and joking, and chucking Harry on the shoulder, and Ginny is blushing and shaking her head in response to something, and Harry is putting himself between the men and Ginny. And the boys are laughing and waving off.

One of the friends sticks around, gesturing to the time, and motioning towards the door. And you distinctly read the words, "We're leaving," from his lips. You start to panic. Harry can't be leaving! He hasn't even talked to you yet.

Harry looks like he agrees, and takes a step away from the redhead. And you are almost on your feet. You will throw yourself into his arms if you have to. However you stop, because Harry stops, and his eyes slide down his arm to his hand, which the girl has slid hers into. Harry looks up at the girl, with a questioning look, and she answers with a somber shake of her head.

"He's staying." It's obvious that's what she said, and from the look in Harry's eyes, it's decided. He moves back to his place by her knees.

Ugh, you need a break. So you hide out in the loo.

What a fucking night. The loo is dingy and poorly lit, as you try and fix your lipstick in the mirror. So much for glamouring your hair into curls... You almost decide to go home, call it a night, and put Harry Potter behind you. However at the last minute you rally in your solidarity, and head back out to the crowded pub. One last try.

You head straight for him. Ginny is laughing and pushing him playfully. Her stupid little hands on his chest, and he catches one and traps it in his fingers. The following look shared between them is...electric (certainly you could find a better word to describe it).

What a fucking night.

But then your hope burgeons, because she is pulling her hand out of his, and turning away. A none-too happy look on her face.

"Why didn't we ever figure this out?" He's asking her, and her back goes rigid.

"Harry...are we really going to go there?" she asks into her empty glass.

"Really, Gin. I can't figure it out," He answers, leaning closer to her.

"Well we certainly acted like we were together the summer right after. But, Merlin, we were both so...lost. I don't do those things with my_ friends," _the redhead admits, her cheeks turning the same color. Summer after what? You wonder, and from your position a few feet away, you can't help but notice Harry's suddenly smug smile.

"I remember," Harry tells her, his voice suddenly low and...husky. Merlin, that is a nice tone. This earns him a look of warning from the redhead. Yes, a fight. That would do nicely, you think.

"Harry, this is mad," she starts laughing uncomfortably, and Harry opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. "This is the first time I've seen you in two months. Merlin, we haven't been in the same place for longer than a week since the summer after the war!" She tells him incredulously. You can tell she thinks she's ended the discussion.

"I know, and I've missed you every day."

You freeze, because he's in love with the girl. This isn't some innocent lust driven flirting. You can tell by the sound of his voice. He sounds like a man confessing his worst sin.

What a fucking night.

"Harry...don't." Her voice is small and tight. Her brown eyes are fixed on the bar in front of her, as the dark haired man stands next to her.

You swallow down your full glass of hard elderwhiskey.

Then something shifts oddly enough. You can feel that_ something_ tangibly shift. A clunk in your heart, and the part of you that is a decent female; the part that believes in love stories, and faerie tales, and happily ever afters is causing you to suddenly root for this young couple. Because they have to find their way back to each other. And at this moment you have no clue why.

Maybe it's her innocent eyes paired with her mischievous smile. Maybe it's the way he's been looking at her all night. The way all girls want to be looked at. Or maybe it's their history, not that you know much of it, but it must mean something. And you can suddenly imagine it all. All of their fights and their breakups and makeups. How she made him relax, and helped him feel human. How they pulled each other out of the rubble of the war, and made each other whole without asking anything in return. But it's probably because if anyone deserves to be happy, it's Harry Potter, and he wants Ginny Weasley.

And you've found yourself taking a step towards them. Almost blurting out this truth that had set its path. You might be the only person able to convince them to stop dancing around what they want and seize it. But you catch yourself from doing something so foolish, and look up to find them gone. Which is crazy because they've been stuck there all night. Unmoving, eyes never wavering.

You scan the pub, and through all the noise and the clinking of glasses you see the redheaded girl disappear through the back door, with Harry pushing through the crowd after her. Without another thought you head that direction. If you had to jinx them together you would.

You use all of your strength, and no apologies to follow the retreating couple. You make it to the back door just seconds after Harry disappears through it. Taking a second to breathe, you duck down and silently slip out. Locking it behind you.

Your gaze searches the alley frantically. Had they disapparated? But your ears are attuned, and you hear their shoes pounding the pavement. You spot them just down the alley, and thankfully neither seem to notice your presence. Ginny is furiously stalking towards the gate the leads to the street, with Harry hot on her heel. Quickly you duck behind the rubbish bins.

You can still see them through a crack between the cans, and they're arguing. A, "would you look at me," and a "leave it," hanging in the air. Ginny is reaching for the iron gate, and you find yourself muttering, "colloportus," under your breath.

Ginny tugs on the gate, but it doesn't budge. You smirk at your own genius.

"Would you stop running Weasley!" Harry argues after her, catching her by the elbow and turning her around.

"Don't Harry...just don't." she warns, pushing him away. Their natural intimacy strikes you. The way he handles her. The way she fights back.

"Why not?" He asks her desperately, ignoring her retreat. Pulling her closer.

"Why are you making this so complicated? We're friends Harry. Why can't we be just friends?!" Ginny argues, and you watch as her struggle becomes weaker and weaker.

This argument seems to ignite something in Harry. "Friends? Do you snog all your friends after your family goes to sleep on Christmas Eve? Or hold their hands under the table at your brother's birthday party? You and I both know we haven't been _just friends_ since I was sixteen."

Ginny gapes at this, her cheeks pinking again more from embarrassment, than anger. It seems that they've had a more in depth history than anyone knew. You watch them tensely from your spot behind the rubbish cans. They are quiet for a moment, their chests heaving with anger, and need, and passion. Harry's hands gripped tight around Ginny's upper arms. Her head tilted up to keep eye contact as he bears down on her.

The air in the back alley is so quiet and so..._charged,_ that you slap a hand over your mouth to be sure that the sound of your breathing does not break the intensity emanating from the young couple. You can feel your hair prickling on your arms. Listening intently you barely make out what Ginny is whispering.

"...many times are you going to make me get over you?"

She's scared. Ginny Weasley is scared. The poor girl is trying to protect her fragile heart. A heart that sounds like it's been broken by the man who had just chased her down the alley and is desperately holding her. You swear your heart is pounding as hard as hers must be.

_Give in! Give in!_ you chant in your head.

"I love you Ginny," he whispers back, his eyes trained on her. You have to hold back a squeal. He is in love with her!

"I can't keep doing this," Ginny tells him, and it sounds like she's about to cry. Harry's jaw flexes at her admission, and he looks sick with himself.

"Ginny...never. Never again," he growls shaking his head, and he is kissing her. He's devouring her, and she's melting under him. His hands releasing her arms, and moving to her waist and into her hair. Her little hands are fisting his shirt, like she's afraid to let go of him. As he pushes her back against the brick wall your eyes go wide, and your hands are silently clapping together like a circus seal. Forget those silly books about the roguish wizard, and the brazen witch. _This_ is romance; jagged edged and beautiful.

"Harry," she whimpers, and you swoon. The amount of need and longing laced in his name is palpable. You smile to yourself. Your work here is done. As you hear a low groan from Harry, you take it as your cue to leave. You're not a pervert!

Crawling back towards the door to the pub, you stealthily make your way into the crowded room. As you stand at the door watching the witches and wizards enthralled in conversation, you feel like cheering. But none of these happy revelers know what monumental _thing_ just occurred here in this very pub. How you helped these two fated lovers find their way back to each other. You brain is abuzz, and you have those butterflies in your stomach. And you feel bloody fantastic.

As Margaret finds you, ready to call it a night, you smile and agree. Hooking your arm with hers, you float out of that wonderful pub.

What a fucking night.

...

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave your thoughts and criticism. Likes and Dislikes.


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